y Arthur devoted to taking a farewell ramble through the
grounds; and in roaming through all the places in the country around, that
he knew so well. He visited every little hiding-place, to which he and his
companion had given names of their own, and then he sat down on the top of
a high mound near the house, where on one of his birthdays a flagstaff had
been planted. The gay-coloured flag was floating in the breeze now, and
Arthur wondered whether if any one else came to live at Ashton Grange they
would take down the flagstaff; "at any rate," he thought, "I will take
down the flag. I think it is nicer that it should be folded up while we
are all away. Oh, yes, and then it will be all ready to put up again, when
we all come back, if we ever do come back again to this place. Let me see,
I shall be almost a man then. Fancy me a man. I wonder what kind of a man
I shall be. Like papa, I daresay; and yet they say I am like mother. I
should think a man like mother would be very queer."

And Arthur began painting fancy pictures of the time when his father's
term in India should be over; and though it was very pleasant to do it,
and the things that he intended to happen then, were very much to his
fancy, yet it was with a little sigh of regret that he said to himself,
"But any way, I shall never be mother's little boy any more."

Then Arthur took out his new pocket knife and carved his name upon the
flagstaff. "How odd if anybody sees it while we are away," he thought;
"they will wonder whose name it is. Shall I put Arthur T. Vivyan? No, I
think not, that might be Thomas. I should not like any one to think my
name was Thomas."

So, after an hour's diligent labour, the name appeared, "Arthur Trevor
Vivyan."

And then he sat down to take a last long look at everything. It was late
in the afternoon, and the sun was shining with its soft spring gilding,
sparkling through the ivy, and making the shadows of the woods look
deeper. It was shining with a ruddy glow on the windows of the house,
every window that he knew so well. There was his mother's room. Arthur
always thought hers was the nicest window, and he used to be very glad
that the roses climbed up there, and clustered lovingly around it. There
was the little window on the landing over the hall door; where he
remembered, on more than one occasion, he had made nurse very angry,
by wishing to try if he could not climb out there, and plant himself on
the top of the porch, so a